Total Warfare
by Wolf-lover-girl
Summary: After discovering Joan's fear of spiders, some harmless teasing stems into total war. No-one is safe in the battle between Joan and Sherlock, including a dress and a forgotten key. Who will emerge victorious? And how far are they willing to go to win?
1. Chapter 1

**_Plot: After discovering Joan's fear of spider's, some harmless teasing stems into total war. No-one is safe in the battle between Joan and Sherlock, including a fake relapse, a Mets game and a forgotten key. Who will emerge victorious? And how far are they willing to go to win?_**

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing, CBS and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle do._**

* * *

It was far too easy really. He was a _consulting detective,_ from _Scotland Yard._ No amount of italics or emphasis could justify what this meant in terms of his ability to deduce, to see things the usual human eye missed. No mystery was unsolvable to him, no puzzle couldn't be unraveled at the seam by his razor sharp mind. He could solve a Rubix's Cube in 2 minutes flat, for crying out loud. If that wasn't a testament to his keen intelligence, he didn't know what was.

Even without his deductive reasoning, her shriek and the resulting flight into the next room, where he was lounging watching Jeremy Kyle USA since he had been feeling particularly homesick that day told him that something was wrong. This huge city, with its bustling streets and American accents was wonderfully enthralling, easy to lose yourself within. But there was something about Britain he occasionally missed, be it not drawing looks every time he spoke, or the way tea here never seemed to compare.

She grabbed the remote, ignoring his unintelligible protests, before turning the TV on mute, demanding his attention. He stared at her, wondering if prolonged exposure to him had drawn out an inevitable sanity loss. "Excuse me, I thought I was meant to be the irrational one in this companion-client relationship?" He asked mildly, grinning at the exasperated look she gave him.

"There's a...spider. In the kitchen. I need you to get rid of it." She sounded rather sheepish now, as if realizing her reaction had made it appear like there was a dead body in the kitchen rather than a spider. She couldn't help it, even growing up she had hated spiders, ever since her brother thought it would be funny to put a spider on her pillow when she was eight.

"A spider..." Sherlock repeated, lips pressed in an attempt not to burst out laughing. Joan Watson, skilled surgeon, professional ass-kicker and master of every bitch face imaginable...was terrified of spiders? He couldn't help an involuntary snort of laughter, which was rewarded with a swift thump from a pillow to the face.

"It's not funny! Just get rid of it!" She was poised to hit him again, but he had already sighed and rolled theatrically from the couch, slouching into the kitchen. She followed behind him, ensuring she had some means of protection between her and the offending spider. Sherlock turned and glanced at her over his shoulder, looking far too amused at her distress for her liking.

"Where did you last see this poor creature?"

"It was behind the blender." She hissed, as if it could hear them and would run to avoid being murdered by an ex-drug addict. He rolled his eyes and padded to the accused machine, but no amount of inspection yielded anything but dust.

"Are you sure this spider wasn't a figment of your imagination?" He asked, pressing the back of his hand against her forehead teasingly. She swatted his hand away, attempting to scowl, but failing as her lips teased upwards in a smile.

"No! It must have moved! You better find it Sherlock, or so help me God..." She couldn't find a suitable threat, nor blackmail for him to entice him to search harder for the insect.

"Your vague threats are certainly intimidating." He scoffed, before his seafoam eyes widened, his hand raising to partially cover his shock and his mouth. "I think you have a new friend..." He gestured to the top of her hair, expression filled with utmost seriousness that she stupidly believed him. Her scream and expression would be something he would never let her live down, and would provide a great source of amusement for at least the next week.

"Get it off get it off get it off!" She swatted at her hair repeatedly, jumping from one foot to the other as though she stood in molten lava. It was only when she stopped that she saw he was in fits of laughter, leaving against the table whilst his chuckles echoed the apartment.

_"You. Complete. Asshole!"_

Each yelled word was accompanied by a well-aimed slap to the arm, but it was decidedly worth the numbness, he thought later. He moved out of harm's way, around the table so her rage couldn't assault him in any other places. She continued to glare at him from her side of the table, shivering at the idea that the spider, the _thing_ was still in the room. As well as the other thing, the scruffy British bachelor who was grinning at her like a Cheshire Cat.

She watched him crouch, hands cupped as he scooped up something from the floor. As he stood, one look at the spider crawling in his hands sent her to the living room, straight onto the spot on the couch he had been occupying earlier. He joined her in the room, heading for the front door, to liberate the poor creature. Not before he skipped in front of Joan, holding it aloft, as if he was going to drop it on her. His shin was lucky enough to receive a kick, but it certainly was worth it, he mused, as he stooped, watching the spider scurry into the cold New York air.

He closed the door behind him as he re-entered the apartment, only to be faced with Joan. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her expression stern. But in those clever eyes there was something working, and he gulped, a sense of trepidation washing over him.

"So...tea?" He asked, slipping past her to dart into the kitchen. He hoped she would be too mad at his stunts to follow, and would retire to bed. Then in the morning, he'd bring her breakfast and give her his best puppy dog eye treatments, and the whole thing would be forgotten. But as she followed him into the kitchen, alas, it appeared his fantasy was never destined to become reality.

He flicked the switch to the kettle on, keeping a bright expression maintained, but it vanished as she reached over and switched it back off again. Her gaze was intense, and would falter any weak man, but luckily he had become partially immune to the death stare. He gazed back at her, eyebrow raising. "So...no tea?"

"No tea." She smiled suddenly, and he knew in that instant, that he had made a terrible error of judgement. Her smile promised things to come, things that he knew weren't going to be good on his side of the field. She said nothing else, merely turned and exited the room, hair flying over her shoulder. He watched her leave, momentarily distracted by the movement of her hips, frozen in place. Slapping the side of his forehead, muttering, "Bad Sherlock," he scampered after her, holding onto the railings as she ascended the stairs. "I'm not going to wake up castrated, am I?" He asked, sounding genuinely concerned that she would do so.

She glanced down at him, her smile widening, as she gazed down at him. "When I'm done, you're going to _wish _that was what happened." She said nothing more, regally continuing upwards to her bedroom. He stood rooted to the spot, and only the click of her door closing, not slamming shut, which terrified him more, jolted him from his thought. There was only one thought, repeating over and over in his head, a mantra of sorts, repeating like an old broken record.

_"What have I done?"_

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_**Hope you enjoyed! Remember to rate and review! :3**  
_

_**Next time: Joan's revenge is the start of a long-lasting prank war. Her first move? Ensuring he has no cases for an entire 48 hours. **_


	2. Chapter 2

The night hours passed without major incident. After spending a considerable amount of time tossing and turning in bed, he realized his insomnia wasn't due to his worry about Joan's revenge, but because of a building soreness in his throat, and a banging from his head that made him groan. No, he couldn't be sick _again, _could he?

As usual, he was awake before Joan, and was seated at the table, digging into a bowl of cereal. She beamed cheerfully at him as she entered, noting how he stiffened automatically as she did so. The spoon that was halfway to his mouth hung in the air, as his suspicious eyes followed her to the kettle. "Good morning." He nodded, suspicion evident from his tone. Either she didn't notice, or pretended not to, she merely smiled, returning the greeting, sounding tired.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about her behavior then, nor throughout the day until mid-afternoon. He frequently glanced her way, brow furrowed in a frown, but whenever he did, she would look at him, eyebrow arched inquisitively, picture of innocence. After her words last night, he was expecting at the very least she would throw daggers, both in glares and perhaps even literally. Detective Bell seemed to notice there was something wrong with the pair, and when Joan stepped aside to talk to the Captain about last night's Mets game, he asked, "What did you do?"

Sherlock stared at him, affronted by his all-knowing tone and air of amusement. "Excuse me?" He asked, rubbing his temple with his knuckles, feeling as though a thousand daggers were being driven into his skull as each second passed.

"You keep looking at Joan, even more than usual." He flashed a grin as Sherlock immediately began to fumble, already beginning to protest. "I don't need to have a PhD in deduction to know that you did something to annoy her."

"They don't give out PhD's for skills in deduction. Believe me, if they did, you would be referring to me as Doctor Holmes." He muttered in response, slouching off to examine a castaway file. Joan glanced his way as she heard the detective begin to cough, followed by a flurry of sneezing that made her chuckle.

"I believe the appropriate social custom is, bless you." He grumbled, indulging in another coughing fit that drew the attention of other police officers in the vicinity, but he was well-accustomed to strange looks. The accent, the occasional burst of random acts; he was surprised he hadn't been arrested more often than he already had.

"You don't look so well." Detective Bell, ever master of the obvious statement, pointed out wryly. "You coming down with something?"

"I'm fine." He mumbled, although his voice was going hoarse."Bloody American illnesses. My British antibodies still aren't used to them."

"So, you are sick then? Maybe you should take the rest of the day off, you don't look so well..." Joan placed a hand against his forehead, which had been racking in temperature since around 3am, but the gesture brought him back to the previous night, and he realized instantly what she was doing.

"Don't eve-" His warning was cut off in another sneeze, and he swore with some British term that she didn't understand.

"Joan's right, you look like you're about to pass out. We're not doing much here, just a few interrogations." Gregson had an air of paternal concern about him, which usually would have both surprised and pleased Sherlock, but for now, he couldn't afford it. He couldn't let Joan win this round, his pride wouldn't allow him to let such a thing happen.

"Which require my presence! How else will you know if the offender is lying?"

"You aren't the only one that can work those little details out." Joan added, muffling laughter behind her hand as Sherlock turned on her, making vague gestures for her to _please stop talking._

"Fine. Miss Watson, seeing as you are Sherlock's..." Gregson paused, seeing Marcus' head jerk upwards, keenly interested to hear the rest of this statement. "...Flatmate, you can decide."

He never thought he would see the day where he internally screamed at himself for being so damn stupid. She would be on his side, right? She had to be, she knew exactly what would happen if he had to stay in the Brownstone for more than a few hours. Then again, the world had some semblance of fuzziness attached to the edges of his peripheral vision..._No._ He stood straighter, chin jutted out as if proving he was fit and able to remain at the precinct to listen in to the questionings. He would rather sit idly and watch paperwork and questions being done than sit at home, doing nothing. She was watching him, almost like the eagle from the nature program they had watched at 2am last week because they were both wide awake and bored, and he turned his puppy dog eyes on her. "Please," He mouthed, hoping his rare use of the word would win her over to his side.

She studied him for a second longer, lips struggling not to break into a smirk, before returning her innocent gaze to Captain Gregson, resuming the role of concerned companion as opposed to vengeful sorceress. "Are you sure he's not necessary for today's proceedings? It won't have an effect on anyone?" She asked, the look of feigned- though some of it was real as he sneezed again- concern on her face. When he nodded adamantly, she spread her arms, almost as if they had no alternative but to return home for the day. "Well, I agree with Captain Gregson, I think a day off is exactly what you need."

If looks could kill, she would be six feet under, she thought triumphantly, as he watched him experience several emotions at once. He was glaring daggers at her, yet he was still impressed at her actions, but there was also hints of resignation. He tried to vehemently protest, growling at Joan in the process, but Gregson had already made up his mind and waved his protests aside. "Listen, how about both of you take the rest of today and tomorrow off. I'll call you if anything major comes up, I promise."

Detective Bell sniggered in the corner as Sherlock threw his hands in the air, storming from the room like a child who had been refused a new toy. "I hate all of you! And I'll be waiting beside the phone, so there better be a phone call the second something happens!"

"I promise," He called back, handing Bell some files, chuckling at the consulting detective's stroppy behaviour. "You might want to go after him Miss Watson, before he gets himself knocked down." He pointed out, and she nodded, moving to follow him. She could have sworn he winked at her on the way out, which made her grin, knowing that she had an ally in this campaign to gain revenge on Sherlock.

* * *

The taxi ride home was silent other than the hum of the radio, and the occasional sneeze. The driver occasionally made a comment, but it was left to Joan to reply, seeing as Sherlock was too occupied sulking to do so. When they arrived home, Sherlock immediately jumped out of the car, shuffling into the house, not without glaring over his shoulder at her. She laughed lightly, paying the cab driver and stepping out of the car. She looked back at him to see the driver was grinning at her. "Looks like you've upset the husband, Miss." He chuckled, his rough accent punctuating every word.

"He's not my..." She tried to correct, but he had already driven away, leaving her flustered on the sidewalk. She was hyperaware of the blush forming on her cheeks, but did her best to ignore it as she hung her jacket up, craning her neck to see where he had disappeared off to. "Sherlock?" She called, stepping cautiously into the living room. She spotted him digging through a cupboard, throwing things carelessly over his shoulder, not caring where or how they landed. She had to avoid the path of a book that was slung over his shoulder, and seated herself on the couch beside him, watching his pilfering.

At last he sat back, holding Angus in his arms, looking self-satisfied. He sat on the floor, beside the house phone he was clearly hoping would ring soon. How long could the NYPD go without his assistance? He had a theory that whilst Marcus was talking to him, Joan had filled Gregson in, and he had established himself as a member of Joan's alliance. Very well, he always could seek the assistance of Bell, not that he needed it of course. No, he already had an idea forming of how to get back at her for this, but he would have to wait until a day or so to implement it.

In the meantime, he was stuffy, had a banging head, and was stuck in the house with nothing to do all day. So he largely ignored Joan for an hour, pretending she wasn't there as he occasionally passed a comment to Angus. After five minutes Joan had rolled her eyes and left to make tea, and when she returned, she returned with a mug, and set in on the table in front of her. Seeing that she wasn't touching it, his curiosity was instantly aroused, and he couldn't help breaking his code of ignoring her existence and peeked at it. It was similiar to that of what she had given him a few weeks ago when he was ill, and he reached up to take it, remembering how effective it had been. He was barred by Joan lifting it from his reach, holding it out of his way.

"Apologize for the spider incident. Then you can have your tea, and maybe in a few hours or tomorrow you can go back to the precinct if they need you. No more pranking." Her demands were laid out, simply structured, and there was no normal person who wouldn't agree, and who wouldn't mutter an apology. This was Sherlock however, and his pride often exceeded his conscience.

So when he stood, setting aside Angus and leaning against the coffee table, she knew he would never apologize. She was proven correct by his words, "I know you don't expect an apology. Yes, we're both definitely blowing this out of pro..." He sneezed again, his brooding mysterious spell suddenly broken, "...Proportion. But you should know by now that I don't do things by halves. I like winning, Watson, and currently? We're at a draw." He left the room then, intending on Googling the correct instructions to replicate her herbal tea before retiring to bed, despite it being late afternoon. "Game on, Miss Watson. May the best contender win." He winked at her as he left, holding in his coughing fit until he reached the kitchen, hoping she wouldn't hear.

She did, of course.

* * *

_**Hope you liked!**_

_**Next time: Still stuck in the house as a result of Joan's intervention gives Sherlock time to come up with a master plan to...lock her out of the house?**_


	3. Chapter 3

Joan was going to kill him. Not for the fact that he had been slouching around all day, never parting himself from the phone and throwing petulant glares in her direction, no. She was going to kill him for his damned cereal obsession.

"What is with your obsession with cereal? We have no milk left!" She grumbled, closing the fridge with an unsatisfied thud. His head perked up from the table, where he was seated shovelling spoonfuls of the stuff.

"I like cereal." He replied with a cheeky grin, his voice still stuffy from the flu.

"Well its raining, so looks like you can't have anymore until tomorrow." She pointed out, seating herself at the other end of the table, tapping her fingernails against the table distractedly. She had to admit, she was on edge. Gregson hadn't phoned during the night, nor the entire day, and it was now 8pm, and still no phonecall. It was clearly a slow day at the precinct, but it had meant she and Sherlock had been in the brownstone for an entire 24 hours.

_Yet why hadn't he done anything?_

"What does it matter if its raining? Why does the existence of my cereal depend upon the weather?" He asked, sneezing a handful of times.

"Because I don't care enough about your cereal to get my hair wet?"

"Fine. I suppose I can find a new addiction. Or go back to an old one..." He trailed off, sighing regretfully, but there was badly disguised mischief in his eyes, which nearly resulted in his decapitation by the spoon he was holding.

"You can't just pull the recovering addict card whenever you want something!"

"Oh can't I?" He asked smugly, reclining back on the kitchen chair, yawning hugely before ruffling his hair. "You should pick up some more tea as well."

"Maybe an axe as well. Solve quite a few problems." She muttered under her breath, brushing past him to leave. He followed her to the door, helping her with her jacket, a gesture she should have realized was the key to her ultimate destruction.

* * *

By the time she returned to the apartment, she was soaked through. Damn him for crashing her car. Damn his stupid cereal obsession. Damn his _British antibodies._

She had another thing to curse at when she fumbled around her pocket for the key, realizing with a groan that it wasn't there. She tried to open the door, but apparently she angered someone up in the sky, because it was locked.

She banged on the door, calling the detectives name, with increasing impatience. She never forgot her key, she always left it in her jacket pocket...

Realization hit her like a brick wall to the face.

"Sherlock! I know your in there, you asshole! You better let me in, or I swear I'll call the police and get them to break this damn door down!" She yelled, thumping on the door repeatedly for emphasis.

His head appeared at the glass on the door, the image of him fuzzy and distorted. What she could see though, was the twinkling of triumph on his expression as he waved at her. "You made that one far too easy Watson." He called teasingly through the door, jumping back as she thudded on the glass where his face was with enough violence to nearly shatter it.

"This isn't funny! Open the door!"

"I object on multiple grounds; the main one being that this is pretty hilarious."

The bags were beginning to feel heavy, so she set them down, leaning against the metal railings. The rain had eased a little, but she was already soaked, her clothes sticking to her like a second skin.

"What can I say that will get you to let me in?" She asked wearily, feeling almost defeated. Almost. There was a spark from within that demanded she seek revenge for this, and she would not let it go unfulfilled.

"Hmm...How about Sherlock is a far superior prankster, and I will always live in awe and astonishment at his reverence and skill?" He suggested, his laughter viable from the wood separating them.

"What is this, elementary school?" She demanded, banging on the door again. The commotion was beginning to attract attention, the next door neighbors poked their head outside the door, gawping at her. "What are you staring at?" She blazed, impatience and the fact she was nearly numb from cold causing her irritation to peak. They immediately withdrew and shut the door rather sharpish.

If she didn't die of exposure out here, she would definitely kill him. After all, working for 5 weeks with the NYPD and one of the best consulting minds in the country, she had picked up a few pointers that might come in handy if say, she wanted to kill him and make a clean getaway. Not that she would, of course. No, in his warped brain he would take that as a defeat on her end; that she couldn't think of anything better to prank him with, so forfeited by killing him. Even from beyond the grave, the smugness would be terrifying.

_Plus, you'd miss him._

_Shut up, _she snapped irritably at her subconscious whilst rubbing her temples, impatience burning within her. She didn't know how long she sat like this outside, her pride refusing to let her call Gregson or Bell, or even his father, which she considered for a fleeting second when the rain increased to torrential. She caught sight of his head appearing at the glass again, which he attempted to be discreet about, but alas failed, as his sneezing fit gave it away.

If only she had his skills at lock-picking, she would have over-come this obstacle easily. She would definitely have to get him to teach her after this. She was about to return to her spot on the stairs when she remembered she had taken the liberty of getting a spare key made, in case of emergencies or forgetfulness.

_I couldn't have remembered this half an hour ago?_

She stepped to one side, lifting up the solitary plant pot. She contained an excited yell as she saw the tiny silver key beneath it, cradling it like a newborn chick in her hands. She silently slipped it into the lock, not wanting to alert him that she had a way in. At the sound of the click, she grabbed the grocery bag containing his cereal and burst into the house.

The way his eyes flew open, and the instant panic in his eyes was comical to her, but apparently not to him, as he fled the instant she stepped inside the door. She instantly threw the cereal box at him, which narrowly skimmed his side, hitting the wall beside his head with a satisfactory _bang. _She darted after him, pursuing him until he disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. She banged on it repeatedly, growling, "You can't hide in there forever!"

"I beg to differ." His muffled voice called through, and she could see he had seated himself comfortably in the bathtub, where he would undoubtedly be content to remain for around half an hour before he got bored and left.

Until then, she dragged a foldaway chair in front of the door, seating herself there with a stern expression and a water gun at the ready. He chanced a peek around the door after five minutes, and was greeted with a river aimed at his face, hitting him dead on target. He retreated back into his safe haven, contenting himself with playing Doodle Jump on his phone.

When he tired of the game, he took his luck and poked his head partially outside of the door. When he wasn't instantly soaked, he crept out, keeping a hand on the door frame in case he had to quickly flee back inside. She was no longer in the chair, but something told him she wasn't far off. Sticking to the shadow of the walls, he crept silently into the kitchen, only to see her standing over the bin, cereal box in hand.

Which she promptly dropped into the silver structure.

"No!" He exclaimed with horror, running to attempt to save the collateral damage, but fate was to set him up for disappointment. "How could you?" He wailed, sounding so horrified and near hysterics that she couldn't help a victorious chuckle.

"Good night Sherlock." She sang as she practically skipped past him to the stairs, wondering if she was going to get her next paycheck.

If she didn't, it would still be worth it, just for the wailing that continued long after she closed her bedroom door.

* * *

_**This, unless my brain decides to work, will be the second last chapter. Don't worry though, the last chapter is going to be extra-extra long to make up for it, and (spoiler alert) might even contain some teeny Joanlock goodness. **_

_**Remember to rate and review etc!**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_My brain decided to pick up the muse for this story, so here's another chapter! I know so far the format has been Sherlock pranking Joan, then Joan pranking Sherlock etc, but this chapter and the next will be a two-parter (: Here's part 1!_**

* * *

The night passed without incident. As usual, he was awake before Joan, and was seated at the table, digging into a plateful of toast with a sour expression on his face. She beamed cheerfully at him as she entered, noting how he stiffened automatically as she did so. The hand that held a crust was halfway to his mouth hung in the air, as his suspicious eyes followed her to the kettle. "See what you've done?" He muttered, waving the toast crust accusingly at her. "This isn't even wholegrain. Disgusting."

"Think of the starving people in the world, Sherlock." She offered him a sweet smile, "Your lucky you even have that." She saw the look of pure contempt he gave her, and laughed lightly, returning to the kettle. Whilst she waited for it to heat, she pulled a mug from the cabinet. She heard the scrape of his chair as he stood, but paid no attention to him, figuiring he was going to dump his dishes in the sink and sulk in his room.

She felt him brush up against her, leaning to grab something from above them. His soft breaths warmed the back of her neck, and she knew exactly what he was doing. "Sorry." He murmured, pulling the coffee mug from the shelf, leaning one arm around her to place the mug on the counter. As a result, his arm now lingered by her waist. Oh, she was going to kill him. But this wasn't the full extent of his plan, no, this was far too simplistic for him. He had a tendency for the theatrical, and making her feel flustered certainly wasn't dramatic enough for him.

"I'm going out tonight." She said quickly, attempting to keep neutral, unperturbed, but his hand had returned to his side, not before brushing against her. She started to move, thanking every miracle and God that she could get out of the apartment and away from him. If the day continued as it was now, she was going to need to spend the majority of the date attempting to return her heartbeat to a semi-normal pace.

"Relapse." His smooth British accent caressed the word, his smirk evident as she whirled round to face him, cursing silently as she realized she had reacted exactly the way he wanted. They were facing each other now, so close that she could see every fleck of green in those bewitching eyes, see every line on the contours of his face.

"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, pushing him away, hand covering her face as she realized the full extent of his plan. "You know I can't leave if you say that!" Oh, he was smart. She both hated and admired that trait of his. Right now, it was verging more on hatred.

"Really? Slipped my mind…" He chuckled, hip-bumping her out of the way to continue his coffee-making, this time without the suggestive brushing. "Looks like you can't leave my side for a whole…two hours, correct? Lots can happen in two hours Joanie."

His casual use of her old nickname made her growl, but there was nothing she could do. She was stuck to him for at least two hours, and would have to cancel her plans, seeing as she wasn't taking him tonight when this war was occurring Collateral damage had to be kept to a minimum. "I'm going to kill you. And I won't even bother making it look like an accident."

"You'd miss me too much." He replied carelessly, draping himself over the back of the chair, gazing at her with an impish smirk. "And we've got lots to do today Watson. Criminals to catch, witnesses to meet..." He paused, eyes scanning her for a second. "A date to attend."

_Damn him. Damn him to a world devoid of cereal and constituing entirely of nothing, so he would remain bored for the rest of eternity._

"I don't know what you're talking about." She snapped, pushing past him to enter the living room to fetch her jacket. He followed her dutifully to the door, but as she reached to open it, he stepped forward, pressing it shut with his back. She glared at him once more, a glare fierce enough to hospitalize a man for a year, but he remained stoic, eyebrow partially raised. _"Get. Out. Of. My. Way."_ She said through gritted teeth, attempting to open the door, managing a few inches, before he pressed his back again against the door, slamming it shut again.

"You've pretty much confirmed my hunch then. Again with the non-specific gender pronouns." He tutted like a disappointed schoolteacher, complete with the crossed arms and superior expression. "You should have learned by now."

"And you should have learned not to bug me so much." She retorted, giving up in her attempts to elbow him aside and open the door, taking a step back. "If you don't open that door, we're going to three meetings a day. For the next _three weeks._"

"I call your bluff." He snorted dismissively, but somehow neither of them believed him. They both knew that Joan would follow through. And the idea of having to spend 3 hours a day in that infernal place...

He moved aside wordlessly. She performed a overtly sarcastic round of applause, before exiting the Brownstone, Sherlock bounding after her, yelling, "Joan? Joan! You're giving me the _silent treatment?"_

* * *

She glanced at her watch, sighing with relief as she caught sight of the time. 11.08. She had 60 seconds before she could leave Sherlock and be free for an entire two hours. Oh, she would be planning a brutal prank for this. For the past two hours she had had to stay by his side, including the exceptionally dull lecture given to the NYPD about the dangers of tax evasion. She had nearly fallen asleep at one point, her head resting against Sherlock's shoulder, but if the detective wasn't allowed to hypnotize himself into a trance, she wasn't allowed to sleep on him, _again._ Last time this dull lecturer had been in the precinct, it was before Joan had discovered his trace method, and he had blinked to find her head resting against his neck. He had stayed frozen for a second, before shaking her awake as she did now. She had glared at him this time, instead of looking embarrassed, and had to sit the entire hour pretending to listen.

Now she sat with a tennis ball Sherlock stashed under a desk for when he got bored in the precinct, throwing it at the wall and catching it. It was mind-numbing and distracting, and meant she didn't have to attempt to make conversation with him when he was immersed in reading.

_Five…Four…Three…Two…_

Sherlock's head shot up from the chair where he was perusing a file, a smile that made her wonder if he was about to commit mass homicide on his lips. She realized a second too late what he was waiting for, bolting to her feet, but she was too late to do anything to stop him.

"Relapse."

She threw the tennis ball at him, and only felt marginally guilty when it hit him in the stomach.

* * *

Four more times he had uttered the word. Every time she had raised her hopes, about to make a getaway, when he would say the words with the most self-satisfied smirk in place she had ever seen. The penultimate use had been during a murder investigation, so she couldn't thump him as she did each time. Now it was half seven in the evening, and they were only into the first 20 or so minutes of this shift, as she had begun mentally dubbing them as. As much as she hated fuelling his ego and admitting he was right, she did have a date tonight. An old college friend wanted to _go for a drink and catch up. And now she had to bring Sherlock? _She considered cancelling, but he was leaving the day after next, so that wasn't an option.

Holmes was watching TV, barely paying attention as he was sprawled across the couch, looking on the verge of sleep. She hesitated as she began walking past him, startled by the curve of his lips in a relaxed, sleepy smile, the flutter of his eyes as he tried not to succumb to sleep. It was entirely innocent and child-like, the first she never associated with him.

"I need to go get ready." She stated, her voice causing him to jump out of his reverie, rubbing his eyes and sitting upright. "Seeing as your _a complete and utter ass_, looks like you have to come tonight as well."_  
_

"Great!" He exclaimed, bounding to his feet with eagerness. Eagerness to make her life even more of a living hell than it already was, she thought wryly. "Where are we going? And whose this mysterious date? It is a date right?"

"Yes, it's a date." She grumbled, shaking her head as he made a celebratory gesture. "And we're going to a restraunt a few blocks away. And it's a friend from college, if you must know. Now go get dressed. You can't go out looking like..." She made a vague gesture to his crumpled shirt from dozing on the couch, the damned _Open 24/7 shirt _which she had been close to burning on several occasions.

"I'll dress appropriately." He said by way of promise, joining her on her rise of the stairs. Once he reached his room, he darted inside, not before yelling, "Wear something pretty!" She made a gesture at his closed door, uncaring that he couldn't see, before entering her own room. Rifling through her wardrobe, she looked for something that didn't scream, _druggie babysitter. _Her eyes caught sight of something that she withdrew from the hanger, her own wicked grin in place. What had he said? _Wear something pretty? _Oh, she was going to. She was going to make him regret his suggestive behaviour this morning for the entire night. Suddenly the night wasn't so much about a catch-up or potential more with a friend, but making him jealous to as much extreme lengths as she could manage.

She was going to pull the game back in her favour with a dress. How poetic and fitting.

* * *

**_Amping up the sexual tension what me no...Pfft..._**

**_Hope you enjoyed! Part 2 will be up as soon as! Remember to review if you have the time, feedback is always amazing! (:_**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Okay so I've had another change of mind...Instead of being a two-parter, this is going to be the concluding four-part end of the story! **_

_**And if you want to see the dress (with Lucy Liu wearing it) type in www stylebistro com/lookbook/Little+Black+Dress/lvxq5Lx2sqz/angle/jEmPvsH5WTG Just put dots after the www and before com, it wouldn't let me link it!**_

* * *

"Joan! We're gonna be late!" Sherlock yelled up the stairs, tapping his foot impatiently. He had pulled on the first thing that lay carelessly strewn across his floor. Black waistcoat, black trousers, white shirt. Fancier that what he usually wore as he slouched around the house, but he wasn't willing to make that much of an effort. He minded his appearance when necessary, but didn't pay attention to details other than wearing clothes in public and making sure his bed hair in the morning wasn't too bad. He heard her heels click as she descended the staircase and muttered a sarky, "Took your-"

The word time died in his throat, as well as every conscious thought when he glanced up at her. He wasn't aware his jaw was hanging open, wasn't aware that his eyes were riveted upon her. Time seemed to suspend, each second as she descended the stairs, like, from his eyes, a goddess from a Greek myth, spanning a thousand lifetimes.

The dress was a nightly shade of black, highlighting her features that seemed almost golden in comparison. Straps ran from her neckline, crossing down until it reached midway. It exposed enough that it was noticeable, her shapely figure speech reducing, but not so much that she felt uncomfortable, nor would end up with her being arrested. The little makeup she had applied distinguished her almond eyes, the smear of light red lipstick making her lips stand out in comparison to the darker shade of her dress.

"Is there something wrong?" She asked, all too innocently. He was still staring at her, and she wondered if her prayers had been answered, and someone had invented a pause button for him. Little did she know, as much as he wasn't speaking aloud, an inner monologue was running in his mind, causing his brain to feel as though it was trying to break free from his skull.

_She's doing this on purpose. Don't look. God, she looks...Look at the roof damn it! Wow that needs painted. Stop it. Don't look. _

He looked.

He closed his mouth abruptly. "No...problem at all." Some comment seemed required, but he was struck dumb, something which caused her to break out into a grin, but also disconcerted her. She wasn't accustomed to his dumbstruck silence. He usually had a few words, a few paragraphs, to say, but now, he was silent and looking as if he had been struck across the face. She didn't have a problem with the silence, but it certainly unnerved her.

Then again, it was an indicator that the game was back in her field.

"We better get going then."

He nodded mutely, taking her jacket, a trench coat the same colour as the dress, from the peg and holding it out to her. She nodded her gratitude as she slipped her arms inside, shivering slightly as she felt his hands on her shoulders, adjusting her hair over the material.

"Cold?" He inquired with searing amusement as she rolled her eyes at him. "Shall we?" He offered her his arm, to her bafflement. They had done it before of course, but at the time it had been informal and casual, and definitely not when the air between them was this charged, not when the stakes were so high. She nodded, using his bicep as a clutch as they hailed a cab. He opened the door for her, but stopped her as she was about to enter. Glancing up at him, she snickered as she saw his eyes were determinedly fixated on her face, obsessive with not letting her think she won by roaming downwards. "You look nice." He stated, no emotion betraying him in his tone, before the most genuine flicker of a smile she had seen broach his outer level appeared. He gestured for her to enter, before jumping in himself.

* * *

They arrived at the restaurant ten minutes late, since Sherlock, being himself, had argued with the cab driver about the appropriate route to their destination. "He's trying to rip us off!" He had whispered when Joan had glared at him. She had her suspicions about why he was- apparently- trying to make them late, but...That wouldn't be the sort of thing he would do, was it?

Jason, her old friend from college, was waiting outside when they arrived. Sherlock took one look at him and snorted with derision. He had icy blue eyes that could be seen from a distance, a stark contrast to his coal-coloured hair. His hair was close-cut, as well as his stubble, giving the look of someone who took great care of their appearance. "Looks like a right tosser." Sherlock muttered. Joan had no idea what it meant, probably some British slang, but it didn't sound as if it meant something positive.

"He's a nice guy. Give him a chance." She whispered under her breath as Sherlock paid the driver.

"_Nice guy? _Did you see the way he just looked at that valet? Or the fact he's wearing a suit more expensive than all of my Father's apartments combined?" He muttered as exited the vehicle, holding the door open for her. She started. It wasn't often Sherlock brought up his Father, even so casually in a conversation. Regretfully pushing it aside, she stepped out of the cab, taking his hand to steady herself. High heels often felt like ice-skates to her.

Jason's face lit up as he saw her, stepping forward, but when Sherlock tailed behind, he looked less than pleased. Nonetheless he kissed her cheek, pulling her into an embrace. "Joan! It's been what, three years?"

"Almost four," She laughed, returning his embrace before swiftly entering the restaurant, the two men in tail. "Jason, this is my..." It was technically up to him how she was introduced, which she had pointed out during their first day together. Although if he called her his house keep one more time, she was going to drag him to a hundred meetings.

"Client. Sherlock Holmes, I'm told it's a pleasure to meet you." Sherlock had stepped forward, hand outstretched. Jason hesitated, before slowly raising his hand, shaking it with the look of a prince conferring with a farm worker.

"Couldn't get out of work for even a few hours, huh?" He said it as a joke, but the sour expression on his face betrayed his true feelings that his date was being hijacked. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't look happier as they were led to a table. He surveyed the menu as Joan and Jason conversed in low tones, diverting his attention equally between eavesdropping their conversation and reading the specials.

"Couldn't you just dump him with another babysitter?"

"Jason. This job is 24/7, I can't just drop him off somewhere else when I'm busy."

Jason scowled, but nodded, and Sherlock felt a faint surge of pride at how the former surgeon handled herself. With authority and assertion. He realized he was staring again, and she had certainly noticed, by her faintly amused expression and raised eyebrow.

_This is gonna be a long night._

* * *

Jason and Joan talked about college, about his new job in a hospital just outside of New York, about college parties they had attended. She had worried about Sherlock at first, worried that he would feel left out in the conversation, but he sat there the entire time with a smug smile on his face, as if he had won a bet with himself. He was putting Jason under a microscope, she knew that, but she didn't mind as much when she did it with him as much as she did when it was her family. Plus, talking to Jason made her realize how much he certainly hadn't changed from earning his pHD. He hadn't had to pay a cent throughout his years, his family's fortune paving the way for the rest of his life, also causing him to have this aura of wealth and arrogance that hadn't altered.

"I'm going to get another drink from the bar. You wanting something?" Jason asked, begrudgingly including Sherlock in the question. Joan shook her head, sipping her water, but Sherlock had stood, beginning to walk towards the bar with him.

"I'll accompany you. That is of course, if Miss Watson doesn't mind." He glanced backwards at Joan, who rolled her eyes, but shook her head, indicating that he was free to do whatever the hell he wanted. As long as he didn't aggravate Jason too much, he should be fine. Jason muttered something under his breath, teeth grinding with annoyance, but followed Sherlock to the bar, ordering his drink. Whilst they waited, he stared sideways at the detective, as if trying to work something out.

"If you have a question, feel free to ask." Sherlock leaned backwards against the bar, so he wasn't facing the alcohol, and so he could see the other man properly. "Interrogate away."

Jason flinched, momentarily looking like a boy who had been caught beside the broken window holding the football. He paused for a second, as if trying to phrase his question before posing it. "Do you..._like _Joan?" He asked brusquely. Like the detective, subtlety wasn't his strong point.

Sherlock seemed to be expecting the question, but allowed himself to take a few seconds to answer, eyes lingering on the form of Joan, who was glancing at her mobile. "Even if I did, to put it colloquially, fancy her, I'd hardly share such information with you."

"'S not like she would go for a druggie anyway. You lot pretend your sober and won't use again, but its only a matter of time before you fuck up." Jason snorted, accepting his drink from the bar with a disinterested look.

Sherlock's jaw clenched, an obvious symbol that he should stop talking. Jason didn't heed the warning.

"It's all your good for, really." He had continued, knocking back another gulp. "Why in God's name they're letting you work for the police, I have no idea. Suppose you'd be good at identifying drugs and that? Could be handy I guess."

Joan had begun to make her way over, eyes instantly noting the way Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, the sparks of anger flaring beneath his green irises that always meant trouble was going to follow. He had the same manic look in his eyes when he had taken the axe to the bank vault.

"You remind me of my Father." Sherlock mused, eyeing him with the same disdain he eyed his Father, and bankers, with. "I'm surprised you can still breathe with how far your as-"

"Did I hurt your feelings?" Jason's pout and tone was entirely theatrical and only worsened the detective's need to throw something at his smug face. "Going to go get your babysitter to give me a row?"

Just as she was at the last table, Sherlock's fist swung, connecting with the man's face, in a blow that would leave him with a black eye for a couple of days.

* * *

_**Hope you liked! I know, I hate Jason too...**_

_**Also, did everyone else love this weeks episode?**_

_**(Spoiler alert)**_

_**Clyde better make a reappearance! But the last scene with Sherlock and Gregson...When he punched him...(The gif is my new sidebar gif on Tumblr cause I'm masochistic apparently...)**_


	6. Chapter 6

**_Did you all get to watch the Superbowl episode? I loooooved it! The first minute and a half though...Wow...Yeah..._**

**_Here's part 3!_**

* * *

Joan felt as though she had been paralyzed when she saw the detective hit the surgeon. There was no such thing as a normal night with him, was there? Jason was leaning heavily against the bar, his eye already puffy and a bruise forming, whilst Sherlock didn't look apologetic at all, but shoved past him, making his way towards the exit, motioning for her to follow.

Before he could get out of reach, Jason jumped forward, grabbing his arm and pulled him round. Unprepared, the blow struck his lip, and he felt the blood begin to form and slide down his jaw. He was about to retaliate, when Joan recovered from her initial shock, and grabbed his arm, which was poised to strike again. On the other side, a barman stepped in front of Jason, pushing him away from the scene.

Sherlock wasn't aware Joan was repeating his name, until she shook his arm gently. His eyes instinctively lowered downwards, until they shot straight back up to attention. "Well, that was fun." He remarked as he used his cuff to dab at his split lip. Wells of crimson stained his finger, and he sighed. His entire body was rigid, tense, and the look in his eyes was the withdrawn Sherlock. The Sherlock who hadn't confided in her with any details about his plans for Moran. The Sherlock she felt she knew next to nothing about.

"You're unbelievable." She muttered, but her hands were gentle as she removed his hand from the cut. "You'll make it worse if you do that. Wait till we get home." He nodded meekly, though there was still no trace of guilt in his eyes, only triumph. He said nothing, as if guessing this was his best course of action, other than running after Jason and venting his anger upon him. They left rather swiftly after that, and neither of them exchanged words as they entered the backseat of a cab Joan hailed.

The silence continued until they were on their street, when Sherlock finally broke the reverie. "If you want me to explain my actions, I shall. But you and I both know there won't be an apology."

"Story time can be later." She let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "We can talk tomorrow morning."

He nodded briefly, and the cab descended into silence once more besides the steady thrum of static from the radio.

Once they arrived in the house, she sat him at the kitchen table and ran a hand towel under the tap, dampening it. He winced sharply at the cold sting as she dabbed at the laceration, but said nothing, merely fixated upon her with his frustratingly intense gaze.

"You're mad at me."

It wasn't a question, merely a statement, but still sought an answer. His expression was serious, well, as serious as the petulant detective could get.

"I'm not mad at you." And she wasn't. There was another reason for her silence, one that she didn't want him nit-picking or deducing. She set the bloodied towel aside, deciding to retire early. As she walked up the stairs, she heard him follow her, catching up to her as she reached the top stop.

"You're not looking at me. And when you accidentally do, you look away. Not to mention I just punched your...Jason. One can only assume under the circumstances, that you are mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you." She repeated, stopping outside his bedroom door so abruptly that he nearly collided with her. She could feel the heavy weight of his gaze upon her, his soul-searching eyes taking in every muscle movement, every facial expression. She wondered sometimes, how difficult it must be to have his skills. The existence of a normal conversation didn't occur with him. He couldn't go on airplanes. He saw too much in every little detail, and she wondered how someone could cope with that.

"Then why-"

"When he punched you, I was scared, okay?" She finally turned to face him, startling him so that he retreated a step, back hitting the wall. "I haven't been that scared since..." She found herself unable to finish the sentence. Memories ran through her mind like clockwork. The routine procedure that was supposed to be a breeze. The laughing, relaxed interns.

Then the heart rate monitor began to decline.

His face crumpled as he caught the implications of her half-finished sentence. He seemed at a loss for words, the second time that had happened on this evening. She certainly did bring out the best in him. And occasionally, the worst.

"Your worry was not necessary. I can hold out on my own." He meant it reassuringly, but it did little to comfort her.

"You say that, but I don't think you believe it yourself." All she wanted was to get this dress off, fall asleep the second her head touched the pillow, and wake up in the morning, forgetting about the whole disastrous evening. She briefly wondered what Jason was doing, but found herself uncaring. He had proved tonight he was still as much of a jackass as he was in college.

He was staring at her, as if he had had some new-found discovery, or had been hit by a hundred cascading bricks. He slowly pushed himself from the wall, eyes never leaving her. Her breathing hitched in her throat, her eyes seemingly not able to move from his own. "I had no idea you cared for me that much, Watson." He murmured, his warm breath inches from her, sending a shiver to pass through her like electricity She found herself this time being the one with no words, being the one staring at him with a dumbfounded expression. He moved forward, closing the minuscule gap between them.

And then he kissed her.

* * *

_**...I have no shame. I couldn't resist.**_


End file.
